


Things Unspoken

by aw_writing_no, Kangofu_CB, sevdrag (seventhe), Spidergwenstefani



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Telepathy, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint hates magic, M/M, Winterhawk Round Robin, the wanking wizard or whoever he is, there is no sounding in this fic, we promise, written by your local lesbian sounding experts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 22:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17886701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aw_writing_no/pseuds/aw_writing_no, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spidergwenstefani/pseuds/Spidergwenstefani
Summary: Clint gets hit with a magical whammy and finds out he can hear other people's thoughts. It mostly sucks.  (Written for Winterhawk Round Robin 2019)





	Things Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you things-I-can-never-have for graciously beta reading this, and sorry for all the trauma you woke up to on a daily basis.

**Holy fuck, he killed Barton.**

“Who did?” Clint tried to lift his head off the concrete, cursing as pain pounded behind his eyes. He groaned and let his skull fall back against the sidewalk. He felt like he had gone ten rounds against an Atlantean and lost each one of them more spectacularly than the last. 

A dull ache throbbed along his spine as he tried to assess the damage. Cuts on the right side of his face, what was sure to be a colossal bruise where his shoulder had taken the brunt of his weight in the fall. Nothing too alarming in terms of physical injuries, but his tongue tasted like ozone and ash, and oh, that was _never_ good. 

Clint wasn’t sure what it said about his life that he knew the exact balance of sour and umami that meant he had been the target of some major magical fuckery. 

**Why isn’t he moving?**

The vague unease in the back of Clint’s mind erupted into full blown panic. Had he imagined lifting his head? Oh God, he _wasn’t_ moving, was he? He tried to sit up and failed as a wave of nausea washed over him. Futzing concussions. Okay, start smaller. He wiggled the fingers on his left hand, then his right. Curled and uncurled his toes. He could definitely move. So why did it still feel like the Hulk was sitting on his chest? 

Suddenly Bucky’s face filled Clint’s vision, and he felt the knots in his gut loosen. **Thank God, he’s okay.** He frowned and wondered when he had had time to be so worried about Bucky. He was the one who had gotten blasted off a building by the Magic User of the Week, right? Still, there was something about Bucky’s smile that made him feel almost giddy with relief. 

“Hey Barnes,” he said. “Give a guy a hand?”

Bucky hauled Clint to his feet. “You’re so demanding, Barton. I only have the one flesh and blood hand to work with, so unfortunately I don’t have a spare to give you.” 

“What’s that? I can’t hear you complaining over the sound of how awesome your left arm is.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, reaching out to pinch Clint’s ear lobe between metal fingers. “Yeah, that’s why you can’t hear me.”

Clint yelped and swatted his hand away. “Be nice to me, I just got blown up by magic.”

Bucky scowled. “Yeah, I noticed.” **Dumbass.** “Our guy vanished after you went off the edge of the building, so I’m here to drag your ass to medical while Steve goes to talk to the press.”

“Someone’s gotta let the vultures know I’m alive.”

“I don’t think they’re worried, pal.”

“How dare you,” Clint gasped. “I am America’s sixth favorite and most handsome Avenger.”

**Damn right.**

Well, at least getting blasted by that Doctor Strange wannabe didn't bruise Clint's ego. Just every other part of him.

"C'mon," Bucky said, "The sooner you get through medical, the sooner we can finish that Dog Cops marathon." **Like he'll let them do anything more than give him an ice pack. _Maybe_ wrap his shoulder.**

"I'm fine," Clint said. "Not even that concussed. I’m pretty sure the only thing that blast did was make me think in the third person." **Weirdo.** He leaned on Bucky as they headed for the tower, doing his best to keep it casual. Firmly in the 'friendly contact' zone and nothing close to 'I need this support to walk.' _Totally_ casual. **You're not fooling anyone.** Bucky's arm tightened around Clint's waist like he could hear the thought, and Clint felt his stomach plummet. "Hey, Bucky. You'd tell me if you could read my mind, right?"

"Of course," Bucky answered. He glanced sideways at Clint. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Perfect. Never better." Clint stumbled a little over an uneven part of the sidewalk, and Bucky hauled him back upright. Pain sparked through his shoulder. "I just need an ice pack. Maybe a juice box. Do you think that one nurse still keeps Hawkeye band-aids in his kit?" **He better not.** Yeah, maybe that was just a shade too creepy to be flattering.

"Why don't you ask him?" Bucky said a little tightly. They were nearing the tower, and Clint could see the camera flashes from halfway down the block. He felt a twinge of sympathy for Steve. Attacks on Stark Tower never went over well with the press. Everything always circled back to how it was 'part of the problem' and a 'beacon for supervillains.' Bucky took a sharp turn, steering them towards the loading dock entrance to avoid cutting through reporters. He punched the button for the door with more force than absolutely necessary, and Clint decided his leaning must be getting on Bucky's nerves. He straightened up as Bucky recited his voice recognition code, following him through the tower lobby and toward the elevators.

"I think what I _really_ need is coffee. My head’s kind of all over the place right now."

"I can tell," Bucky said, his tone just on the genuine side of mocking. He held the elevator doors open. "Medical floor, Jarvis."

"Going up," Jarvis answered. Clint took the opportunity to lean back against the wall, watching the numbers tick higher. He could see Bucky scanning him out of the corner of his eye, probably trying to figure out if Clint was about to sprout a tail or something.

“I’m okay,” Clint sighed. “Really. I think that spell was more of an energy blast than anything else.” The sense that something inside him had been knocked off balance was still twisting ominously in his gut. It was _never_ just an energy blast. “Just give me some ibuprofen and Dog Cops night is back on.” Bucky crossed his arms, looking unconvinced.

“Nice try, but Steve’ll have my ass if I let you skip medical again.”

“ _I’ll_ have your ass,” Clint said halfheartedly. The feeling of the elevator moving around him had started getting to his head. Bucky just rolled his eyes. **Ugh.**

“Medical floor,” Jarvis announced, saving Clint from whatever bad line his throbbing head was going to churn out next. Bucky moved to leave first, actually grabbing Clint by the back of his uniform shirt and hauling him out into a gathering crowd of physicians.

**Oh, God. Not again.**

**It’s always Barton, isn’t it?**

**I should get a suture needle ready.**

**Man, Bucky Barnes is sexy when he’s on the warpath.**

Clint blinked. A nurse was talking to him. His aids were working. He was _sure_ his aids were working, but any question directed at him was drowned out by the cacophony in his head.

**He’s really out of it this time. Poor guy collects concussions better than Dad collects stamps**

**Come on, Barton. Pay attention for once in your life.**

“What?”

**Holy shit, he looked at me!**

**Is Hawkeye about to pass out?**

**What. An. Idiot.**

Clint passed out.

Or, rather, he was fairly certain he passed out, because his next conscious moment found him lying in a dark, quiet room, with the familiar feeling of Natasha’s sharp nails scratching against his scalp.

“What happened?” He croaked, his mouth and throat dry and the cotton-y feeling of drugs coating his thoughts and _oh_. Maybe he hadn’t passed out, maybe they’d sedated him.

**Слава Богу.**

And okay, that was different. His internal monologue wasn’t _usually_ in Russian. Or prayerful.

“Do I have ‘nother concussion?” He asked, turning his face towards Nat’s hand and letting her cool, familiar touch give him the comfort he would never ask for. 

She snorted. “Drink this,” she ordered, holding a plastic straw to his lips. He thirstily gulped down the cool water. “You don’t have a concussion.” **This time _._** “We did every scan the doctors could think of and a few I think Tony invented on the spot. Wanda’s been in to have a look at you and said you’ve got ‘residual magic’ hanging around you, but she can’t identify anything specific _done_ to you.” 

Clint got a sense of vague anger and frustration and helplessness that seemed familiar at the same time that it wasn’t. Like wordless, indistinct rage. 

**Fucking magic _._**

Which, yeah. Clint hated magic users.

But in the haze of drugs and the quiet of what he now recognized as his own room in the tower, he could tell that the… well, the _flavor_ of the thought wasn’t quite right in some difficult to pinpoint way. 

“Tony’s asked Dr. Strange to come and have a look as well, but as usual he’s far too busy to come quickly, so he said it will be a few days.” The sarcasm in her voice was blistering. 

**Asshole**.

Clint squinted at Natasha, but her lips definitely hadn’t formed the last word. He thought about the bewildering few minutes he’d spent on the medical floor, and the weird interaction he’d had with Bucky and wondered a lot more about what kind of magical blast he’d got hit with. He was starting to get a sinking sensation in his gut that he might know what it was, and he didn’t want it.

“Sorry I scared you,” he said, instead of any of his other thoughts.

 **You always scare me** , **Мудак**.

Natasha scoffed. “I knew you would be fine, but you could make more of an effort to keep yourself in one piece.” She brushed what could almost have constituted a kiss across his forehead, the gesture of affection belying her words. “Rest,” she ordered. “They gave you the good drugs, you should take advantage.”

Clint grinned sleepily at her as she made her way out of the dark room, leaving the door cracked so that the warm light from the hallway seeped into the room.

 **Idiot _._** The thought was tinged with what ‘sounded’ like affection, and that’s when Clint knew, deep in his bones, the thought was not his own. Clint had thought of himself as an idiot a countless number of times, but never _affectionately_. Self-deprecating, anxiety-ridden, self-loathing, and utterly mortified, sure. But it never had a positive meaning when he thought it to himself.

He was definitely hearing other people’s thoughts. 

He rolled over and groaned into the pillow.

For some people, this would be a dream come true - always knowing what everyone around you was thinking. Clint had never wanted to know what people thought because he _already knew_. He could read it in their faces, in their micro-expressions and the way they held themselves. As a kid they’d pitied him - alcoholic dad, deaf, and scrawny. Then he'd been a carnie and a circus brat. No one had anything good to say about people like him. As a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent he'd been viewed with a sort of awe that might have been nice, before Loki had happened to him. 

And he'd gotten a small taste, already, of exactly what kind of hell this was gonna be, just being near Bucky and Natasha. 

Speaking of which, if either of them found out he could read their minds, he'd be dead before the thought was fully formed in their brain. 

“Shit,” he muttered. “Now what?”

There seemed to be a proximity limitation, which was good, but he couldn't avoid the team forever. 

Maybe he could ask Wanda. You know, subtly. Stealthy. He was a spy, he could be discreet. 

The stealth plan flew out the window as Clint stumbled into the common area to find most of the team lounging around.

It was like a punch in the face, but to his brain: not just thoughts, but the emotions embedded in them, and for a second he wondered how Wanda had avoided going _insane._

**Shouldn’t Barton be in medical?**

**Where the fuck is my orange juice?**

**But Steve’s wrong, if I just add in a hypothetical loop to pause the code, it’ll be fine.** (This was obviously Tony, and carried a heavy dose of exasperation with it.)

 **I’m so fucked.** This one carried a longing so sharp that Clint almost stumbled, a rush of _want_ so hot that he was immediately jealous of whomever it was for. It was probably Steve, or Tony again - their dumb sexual tension had been obvious for _weeks._

“Barton?” Bucky was asking, since Clint was just standing there and staring.

“Who drank my fucking orange juice,” Sam yelled from the fridge, which gave that one some context at least.

“Just going to check on Wanda,” Clint said, a bit overwhelmed, and attempted to scoot through the room like nothing was wrong at all. 

**Is he alright?** carried a hint of genuine concern, and since it maybe felt like Bucky Clint gave him a big grin before fleeing down the hallway towards Wanda’s rooms. 

The door opened as he approached, Wanda looking at him with confusion on her face - obviously picking up whatever he was putting out - and Clint slipped in and shut the door, quickly, locking it for emphasis.

“You gotta help me,” he blurted out, “I have a problem.”

Wanda looked shocked, then surprised; Clint heard a snort from the corner, and Pietro said, “You have _many_ problems, old man.”

Clint just gave Pietro the middle finger and kept his attention on Wanda. She gave him a small smile and a little _go ahead_ gesture, waiting.

Clint’s head was quiet, for once; he knew Wanda kept some relics in her room to give herself some peace, so maybe that was helping him out too. It was a scary thought: Clint didn’t want to be a wizard. Magic sucked.

“So let’s say a - a friend got hit with a magical whammy,” he began, immediately cringing at his own words. “And he thinks he can maybe hear other people’s thoughts and he really doesn’t want to because Steve and Tony’s sexual tension is gross and he’s afraid of getting stabbed by an assassin? What can he do to not hear people’s private shit and die, asking for. For a friend.”

Wanda frowned at him, obviously amused. “Clint,” she said gently, “may I read you?”

“That was the worst story I have ever heard,” Pietro added. “For a friend.”

 **Dumbass,** Clint heard, followed by an unexpected wave of affection. He couldn’t tell which twin it was, but he could guess. Wanda usually wasn’t that mean.

Clint nodded, and Wanda stepped closer. She rested the tips of her fingers against his temples, the touch light and calming, and closed her eyes. Clint stood there, awkwardly, not sure where to look and not wanting to move. 

“I cannot tell,” Wanda started, slowly. “There is a magic on you, for sure, but it hasn’t yet settled into any kind of shape I can see, or remove. Can you tell me what you are hearing?”

Oh, man. “Not a lot in here,” Clint said warily. “Are you, like, damping it?”

She smirked, and tapped her own forehead. “My room is a safe place.”

“Tell me about Steve and Tony,” Pietro called out. “Are they finally going to go, what is the phrase, fuck like the bunnies?”

“Oh my _God._ ” Clint put his hands over his face. “That is exactly what I _do not want to know about._ ”

“But it is exactly what I want to know about,” Pietro said cheerfully, “you know. For a friend.”

“I need more information if you want me to take this magic off of you,” Wanda added. “You should go and test it, Clint. Figure out what you are hearing.”

“You aren’t reading everyone’s minds all the time,” Clint said, and then added warily: “Are you?”

“No.” Wanda smirked again. “But I know my magic. I do not know what you have.”

“I don’t _want_ magic,” Clint whined. “I don’t _want_ to test it. Isn’t it, like, rude to listen in on other people?”

“Of course it is,” Pietro said, “but you are also rude, so it is okay.”

“It will feel strange,” Wanda said, grasping his hands. “But you do not need to do a lot. Only enough that we can figure out how to undo it.”

 _Well,_ Clint thought, trying to figure out who would be the teammate least likely to murder him, _shit._

“Hey Pietro, you’ve been on the receiving end of magical fuckery before, right?” Clint asked. Wanda pursed her lips at the language, but Clint was far too stressed to worry about offending her. “Can I just practice on you?”

“Of course, so long as you do not mind what you see,” Pietro replied. “I think a lot about you. Your dumb face as you make a joke, your ass in your uniform pants, your biceps as you take a shot..”

Clint turned to Wanda, eyes wide with panic. “Please tell me he’s joking.”

Wanda waved a hand dismissively at Pietro. “His mind is a disgusting place, we should stay out of it entirely,” and _Christ_ that was not a no. “Jarvis, is anybody still in the common room?”

“Dr. Banner is in the kitchen,” the AI replied. “Everyone else is either in their own quarters or down at the range.”

“Bruce is probably safe for you,” Wanda said. “He tends to be very understanding.”

“I don’t have to worry about triggering the Hulk?”

“Probably not. It took all of my effort to bring him out in Johannesburg, and I was far more skilled with my magic than you are now.”

 **How reassuring**. Clint glared at Pietro, who smiled innocently. “Be sure to tell me all the secrets you learn,” he said. “My sister is boring and will not gossip with me.” Red magic swirled from Wanda’s fingertips to flick Pietro on the forehead. He yelped as Clint and Wanda turned to leave. 

Wanda placed a hand on Clint’s arm after they closed the door, stopping him from walking down the hall. “Wait, I want to try something.” She tilted her head, staring intently at Clint. **Can you hear me?**

Clint blinked in surprise. “It sounds like your voice,” he said “That’s... I can’t really tell anyone else apart. It’s just random words and emotions.”

Wanda shrugged. “It’s hard to organize other people’s thoughts at first. It comes with time. It is probably different because of my magic.”

_**Can you hear me?** _

**Of course.** “When we get there, you will have to open yourself up to the thoughts you’re hearing. It can be... overwhelming. But it will give me the best understanding of the magic.” 

“Is there any way you can turn it off after you get a sense of what’s going on?”

“It will take me awhile to figure out how to undo the spell,” Wanda said. “It’s probably best if we just leave the room when our test is over.”

Clint scrubbed a hand down his face. “I hate magic.” Wanda flinched, so he quickly thought _**But I like you.** _

She smiled brightly at him and led them into the kitchen. She walked straight towards the fridge, grabbing two sodas and handing one to Clint as he leaned against the counter. Bruce stood by the stove, waiting for the water to boil as he sniffled. He clutched a mug between both hands. He only acknowledged their presence with a grunt, and Clint could feel waves of irritation rolling off of him.

“Wanda,” he murmured, anxiety spiking in his chest. _**Bruce doesn’t feel calm**_ **.**

 **It’s safe,** she assured him. **Just listen.**

Clint sighed and turned towards Bruce. He had to physically stop himself from jumping as a voice boomed in his head. 

**Hulk hates rosehips. Chamomile better.**

Bruce’s grip on his mug tightened. **Rosehip tea is good for colds.**

 **Puny Banner**. A sensation like a yawn poured through Clint as Bruce took several deep breaths. The kettle whistled, and Bruce filled his mug in a slow, calm manner that belied how annoyed he felt. **Enjoy your dumb tea.**

Then the second voice was gone, and all Clint could hear was Bruce reciting the periodic table while he sipped his tea. 

_**Too much** , _he thought, and felt a flood of warm reassurance that could only come from Wanda. _**Did you get enough to undo this?**_

 **Not yet, but we will try again later**. They wandered into the common area, where Clint collapsed on the couch with a groan. Wanda settled beside him. 

_**I feel like that could have gone really bad.** _

Wanda shook her head. **Bruce was in control, even if Hulk was near the surface. I hear him from time to time.**

Clint wasn’t sure if that made him feel any better. 

“I’m so happy you’re here, Wanda,” he said aloud, needing a moment of normalcy. “I’m not sure what I would do if I casually heard the Hulk in our kitchen.” 

Wanda’s smile was soft and sad as she reached for Clint’s hand. “This sounds selfish, but it is nice that someone finally understands. It can be lonely to feel everyone around you and know you are separate from everything you hear.”

Clint pulled her into a hug. They stayed like that for several moments, Wanda sheltering her thoughts to give him some space. Clint had never been more grateful for a friend’s silent comfort.

**What the fuck is going on?**

Clint nearly shoved Wanda out of his arms, before remembering that he shouldn’t be reacting to someone else’s thoughts. Instead he looked up and tried to act surprised that someone else had entered the room.

“Oh, hey Bucky.” 

Bucky looked confused. No, his _thoughts_ were confused. Bucky’s face was more carefully neutral than Clint had seen in a while.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to...” Bucky waved a hand in Clint and Wanda’s general direction. **Interrupt.** “You left in a hurry.” **I wanted to make sure you were okay.**

“Oh, yeah,” Clint answered, plastering on his best everything-is-fine smile. “I just had to talk to Wanda here about, um. Movies. We were going to watch a movie.” Nailed it. Clint felt a sudden wave of emotion, like a quick stabbing pain in his chest. Ouch. Okay, maybe not the most solid excuse. Bucky really didn’t appreciate being lied to.

“Right,” Bucky said, his face still unreadable. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” **Idiot.** Clint figured, by process of elimination, that the last thought was about him. Bucky turned on his heel, leaving the common area as quickly as he’d come. Well. That would have to be patched up later.

“Maybe I should talk to Steve about upping the team building exercises,” Clint said, slumping back against Wanda. “Nobody in this damn tower ever says everything they’re thinking.”

“Maybe,” Wanda hummed, running her fingers soothingly through Clint’s hair. “Maybe you should pay more attention to what _is_ said, as well.”

“That’s just upsettingly cryptic,” Clint said. Wanda hummed again, flicking his ear with less force than she had Pietro’s. “Seriously, just because you can keep your thoughts to yourself doesn’t mean you have to speak in riddles.”

“Oh, is Baba Yaga upping the witch factor? Only talking in rhymes?” Tony’s entrance was announced by a swirl of indistinct background thoughts, filling Clint’s head with vague technobabble chatter. He dropped himself down at the very end of the couch, not even bothering to look up from his tablet as he shoved Clint’s legs out of the way. His brain waves were almost overwhelming, and Clint felt like he was drowning in code snippets and scientific formulas. He shot a desperate glance at Wanda, who pressed a reassuring hand into his shoulder.

“Tony,” she said slowly, waiting for him to give a nod of acknowledgement. “Clint and I were in the middle of a conversation.”

“And I’m in the middle of fixing a coding bug. I see no problem here.”

“We’d like a minute alone.” Tony’s fingers paused, and for a moment all of his thoughts solidified into one word. _**Oh.**_ He looked up, finally, fixing them a bored look.

“Look, Samantha. You and Darrin can get down and dirty in your own quarters. The rest of us are still riding the high from a fight well won, so the common area will stay just that.”

 _ **Oh no,**_ Clint thought as coherently as possible. _**Wanda, I think Tony thinks we’re fucking.**_

Amusement was rolling off Wanda in waves, which only doubled as Steve and Sam found their way to the common room as well.

“So, movie night?” Sam asked, staking his claim on the comfiest armchair by draping himself over it. “Thing one and Thing two still haven’t seen Jaws, so now’s as good a time as any.”

“I saw part of it,” Steve said defensively, pausing for a moment on his way to the second comfiest armchair to raise an eyebrow at Clint and Wanda. **Well that’s new.** He blinked, recovering quickly. “Tony was playing it in the workshop.”

“Mmm, nope,” Tony said, finally putting aside his tablet. “That was Jurassic Park. Jaws is the one with the shark. Speaking of deadly predators, where’s Furiosa gone? We can’t let him miss out on formative seventies cinema. Jarvis, get Barnes in here.” **If he loses his shit at the jumpscares, I’m getting it on video.**

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Jarvis responded.

“Are we watching Jaws?” Natasha asked, materializing somewhere near the doorway and choosing the arm of Sam’s chair as her perch.

 _ **Wanda,**_ Clint thought helplessly. _**Make it stop.**_

 **I think leaving now would cause some assumptions to be made.** Oh. Oh _no._

“What’s happening?” Bucky’s voice came from behind the couch, making Clint jump. He sounded more hostile than a typical movie night warranted. “Jarvis said it was an emergency.” **Everyone looks fine. Steve looks fine. Clint looks fine.**

“Oh, good thinking, J. It _is_ an emergency. Two of my teammates are uneducated in the art of Spielberg.” Tony had pulled the movie up as everyone filtered in. Clint couldn’t figure anyway to extricate himself now without making a scene.

**Fuck, Clint makes the bedhead look work.**

“What?” Clint squeaked.

Bucky gave him a funny sort of look, and Clint realized that his response didn’t jive _at all_ with the verbal conversation being bandied around him. Wanda nudged him with her toe, and he allowed himself to slump back onto the couch. 

“I have a headache,” he complained, wincing. 

**Probably another concussion.**

Clint was unable to parse exactly who had thought that, but it made him cross his arms over his chest in a huff. He didn’t _always_ have a concussion. 

**No, but you do always have an injury** Wanda sent him, with some amusement. **It’s a fair assumption.**

Clint turned his head to glare at her. She playfully nudged him with her foot. 

**What the fuck?** Was the next bewildered thought in his head, this one vaguely ‘flavored’ in the way that Clint had already come to associate with Bucky - some intrinsic swirl of emotions that accompanied the thoughts. Clint turned to look at him and found Bucky watching his interaction with Wanda with a carefully blank face - blanker than Clint had seen it since Bucky had first arrived in the tower, that carefully neutral expression that revealed none of his thoughts.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, Bucky could no longer hide behind that calm, expressionless mask, because Clint could _hear_ the confusion in his head as he tried to figure out what exactly was going on between him and Wanda.

**When did they get so touchy-feely, I thought Clint had sisterly feelings for her not… but they look-**

“Hey,” Clint said, softly, catching Bucky’s attention. “You wanna go shoot some shit? I’m not really in the mood to watch a movie. Headache,” he said, again. 

Wanda snorted beside him, before getting up and padding into the kitchen to make her own cup of tea. 

There was another rush of cautious confusion from all around the room - apparently Clint’s interaction with Wanda was so entirely out of character that everyone was now wondering about them, in snippets that Clint could have lived without, including some _very_ graphic thoughts that flitted through Tony’s head and made Clint want to gag. 

Bucky blinked at Clint, and then nodded cautiously. “You sure you don’t wanna stay here instead?” he asked, thinking again of the scene he’d walked in on, and Clint winced.

From Bucky’s perspective, from the flashing imagery in his mind, Clint and Wanda had looked disturbingly intimate, pressed up against each other on the couch, with Clint’s head on Wanda’s shoulder and his arms wrapped around her.

No wonder everyone had the wrong idea. 

“Positive,” Clint said, decisively. “The ocean freaks me out,” he added, “and I don’t wanna watch anyone get eaten in bad seventies animatronics. I’ve had enough giant weird creatures trying to kill me lately, thanks.” He stood up from the couch and stretched his arms over his head, feeling half his vertebrae realign into place with a series of pops. 

There was another flash of imagery, this one of _Clint_ , stretching the same way, but sans the clothes and _whoa_ where had that come from? 

Clint blinked around the room suspiciously, but no one was looking at him. Tony was focused on the television, working on setting up the streaming service they used for movies, Steve and Sam were deep in conversation that Clint caught the edges of - the thoughts, not the words - just their usual banter over their running schedules. Natasha had produced a book from nowhere, and all Clint was getting from her now was a mishmash of Russian that he suspected - but would never _imply_ \- was some sort of romance novel. 

Wanda gave him a small, secretive smile on her way back to her spot on the couch. 

“Enjoy your shooting competition,” she said, settling herself into the corner of the sofa with her feet tucked under her. **We can talk again later. Maybe you will discover more about this new magic on the range.** Her inner voice was tinged with just as much amusement as her smile had been. 

Clint felt a little like he was on the outside of an inside joke. 

“We will,” Clint assured her, scooting between the couch and the coffee table and heading towards Bucky and the elevators. “Let’s go Barnes, I think it’s my turn to take the high score.”

“In your dreams, Barton,” Bucky huffed, but he followed Clint out of the room.

They rode the elevator in silence. Bucky’s thoughts were muted, nowhere near as loud as Tony’s had been, and Clint wondered whether that was some part of the whole Winter Soldier thing, or if it was just how Bucky was now. He was picking up on something, but it was a low hum — anxiety? Excitement? Shit, he should have asked Wanda for a feelings manual. Clint was bad enough figuring out his _own._ He needed some kind of dictionary if he was ever gonna figure this out.

They warmed up as usual, Clint working through his three favorite bows while Bucky checked the adjustments on his rifle (no one ever messed with it, but he checked every time anyway, because he was Bucky) and took down a couple targets with typical efficiency. It really was a joy to watch Bucky shoot: Clint was showy, almost greedy, like a performance, but Bucky purred like a motor. There were no wasted movements, everything sleek and blunt at the same time. Nothing wasted, everything coiled into tension like a spring.

**Why is he staring?**

“Shit,” Clint said out loud, and then “shit” again when he remembered he probably wasn’t supposed to be responding to other people’s thoughts.

“What,” Bucky scoffed, “you see somethin’ you like, Barton?”

**It’s about time you noticed.**

And what the fuck was that supposed to mean? 

“I was thinking we could mix it up,” Clint replied instead, stretching his arms back and then over his head. “Wanna try co-op? Tony says it’s in beta, so I bet we could break it.”

Bucky’s mouth smirked upwards, and his eyes were warm. “Sounds good,” he said, and Clint caught an image of himself stretching, but shirtless, with a focus on his biceps that made him simultaneously preen and _panic._ The mental image flashed only for a moment, and was tinted with something so appreciatively sexy that Clint blushed.

What the fuck? Was Barnes thinking about his arms?

 _They’re good arms,_ Clint told himself, because he was on the verge of a little freak out. Probably even Natasha looked at his arms. It didn’t mean anything weird. At all. Sure.

“But let’s put a little skin in the game,” Bucky said, and oh _god_ was that a flirty tone, was he being _flirted_ at? “High score gets to give the other one a dare.”

“We don’t even know what the course is like,” Clint countered, and how had he missed this whole time that Bucky’s roguish smile was so goddamned attractive? He smirked back, hoping he looked something like smooth. “I don’t want you cryin’ fair play if it’s made for arrows instead of guns. Tony _does_ like me better.”

**He’s not the only one.**

Bucky raised an eyebrow, and stalked forward, until he was maybe a foot in front of Clint. _Holy shit._ Clint watched as Bucky raised his eyebrow and said, his voice husky, “You ain’t gonna tell me that the Amazing Hawkeye is afraid of losing?”

“Not on your life,” Clint breathed, because Bucky was _right there_ and there was some kind of feeling he was picking up, this weird combination of longing and want, and he’d known before that Bucky Barnes was objectively hot as fuck but he’d never considered Bucky being, well, hot as fuck in his specific direction, and _damn,_ it was working for Clint.

Bucky’s eyes flicked down to Clint’s mouth for a second, and then back up to his. “It’s on,” he murmured, and this was an odd moment, the air between them almost crackling—

“Let’s put this thing through the wringer,” Bucky said, moving away, and it almost broke the tension except that Clint heard, very clearly:

**Thank fuck. Maybe I have a chance after all.**

This carried a hint of anticipation but also some strange kind of sadness, and it threw Clint completely off his center. Sadness? _A chance?_ Was he — did Bucky have some sort of? He couldn’t even bring himself to think the word _crush,_ it seemed so ridiculous. And Clint’s blood was up, just thinking about it; his brain was very, very interested in this new piece of information.

There was a long minute where Clint considered bailing, running back upstairs to Wanda, making her take this stupid magic thing out of his head and maybe wiping him off the face of the earth too as a bonus. But then Clint took a deep breath, and remembered that he and Bucky were _friends_ and they did this kind of shit all the time, and more importantly, he had a reputation to keep.

“Alright, Barnes,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

They made their way over to the new simulator, pressing their hands against a scanner to log in. 

“Welcome Agent Barton, Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS said. “Do you need instructions on the new course?”

“Sure, Skynet,” Clint replied. Bucky rolled his eyes.

“A variety of holograms will appear around the room. Agent Barton, yours will be purple. Sergeant Barnes, red. White will be civilians, and shooting them will deduct points from your overall score. Different targets will be assigned different point totals depending on size and difficulty to hit. Any questions?”

“Did you keep up with that, Barton?” Bucky snarked. 

“I think I managed to follow,” Clint said, even if he wasn’t sure exactly what JARVIS meant by different targets. He smiled at Bucky. “Ready to get started?”

 **You know it.** Clint could _feel_ excitement bubbling in his chest, but couldn’t say whether it was truly his or if he was just picking up on Bucky’s mood. Either way, he felt good.

The simulation started, and... seriously Tony?

“Stark totally ripped off the Hunger Games,” Clint said as a purple Atlantean charged him. It exploded when his arrow flew through the torso, and okay, at least he didn’t copy the cube effect. 

“What’s that?” Bucky coolly shot down several red silhouettes that looked vaguely like AIM agents. 

“It’s a movie series. Books are better though. The main character is an archer.” 

**Of course it is.** “Sounds dumb. We should watch it.” 

Adrenaline hummed through Clint’s veins. He tried to concentrate on the course, tried to pick out the purple targets in the sea of holographic Doombots. But everything was overwhelmed by Bucky, by the focus and intensity and pure _exhilaration_ that radiated from him. Clint managed to dodge an attack at the last second, throwing himself into a somersault before coming up on one knee to shoot the hologram in the face. 

**Fuck, that’s hot**. 

Clint missed his next shot. 

The simulation ended with Bucky beating Clint by an embarrassing margin. He rounded on Clint, his lips curled upward in his patented smirk. 

“I think we agreed winner gets a dare,” Bucky said. **Am I really going to do this?**

“So dare me,” Clint replied, his voice cracking as an image of him, hair mussed, lips swollen and red, appeared in Bucky’s mind.

Bucky cocked his head to the side. “I need to think of something good.”

Anticipation crawled under Clint’s skin, his eyes flickering to Bucky's lips. How has he missed this? Even without the images of them together that were currently flooding his mind, the heat in Bucky's eyes was unmistakable. 

The expression on Bucky's face tightened slightly as doubt laced through his thoughts. **I can't ask for a kiss if there's something between him and Wanda.**

Bucky began to shrug it off, and Clint could sense the excuse that was about to roll of Bucky's tongue. He tangled his fist in the front of Bucky's shirt and yanked him forward, slamming their lips together before he had to hear the words out loud.

**What the -- oh. _Oh._**

Clint couldn't tell if he was soaring or falling. It was like the moment before his grappling arrow engaged, the thrill of being in free fall while knowing that he wasn't going to hit the ground. 

Bucky was everywhere. He was solid beneath Clint’s hands, warm where their chests were flush together. His lips were soft as they moved against Clint’s, parting easily as Clint’s tongue slid inside. He smelled like gunpowder and some kind of fruity shampoo, tasted like the whiskey they had stolen from Tony’s personal liquor cabinet just to see if JARVIS would narc on them. Bucky moaned into the kiss and it vibrated through Clint until every cell of his being was buzzing. Heat swirled through his stomach, up his throat. He couldn’t remember wanting anyone more than he wanted Bucky. _God_ he had never felt like this before. 

**Fuck, fucking finally. Better than I could have imagined.**

Clint’s eyes flew open.

_He had never felt like this before._

Clint shoved Bucky away from him, gasping as he sank to the ground. Christ, was any of that his? Clint had gotten so swept up in the moment that couldn’t separate himself from Bucky. The thoughts, sensations, emotions. He didn’t know what was real. 

“Clint?” Bucky’s voice was soft, uncertain, but it was nothing compared to the maelstrom of anxiety Clint heard in his thoughts. **God, please don’t let me have messed this up.** “What’s wrong?”

Clint cradled his head in his hands. “I... I can’t.”

**Can’t be with me?**

“No! I don’t. Shit, I _can’t_ , I don’t--” The end of his sentence, the _I don’t know_ , died in his throat. **Don’t want me.**

Everything he and Bucky were feeling -- rejection, confusion, panic -- washed over him. His ribs constricted lungs that felt far too big for his chest. It was too much, he couldn’t breathe -- 

“Clint!” Bucky crouched next to him. “Fuck sweetheart, just take a deep breath.” 

Clint was drowning.

“Please,” Clint whispered. “Please just go.”

“Clint I can’t leave with you like this.”

“Please,” Clint said again, “I’m --” _Lying, taking advantage, fucking losing my grip on reality_. _So lost in all of your thoughts and feelings I can’t find myself._

“You’re what?”

“Suffocating,” Clint managed to gasp. “You’re suffocating me.”

Bucky’s hand fell away from his shoulder. **You scared him off. Great job, Barnes.**

“Fine,” Bucky said. “See you around Barton.” Clint watched Bucky walk decisively across the gym, never once looking back. The elevator doors slid shut behind him.

Sorrow sat deep within Clint’s bones long after he was finally able to breathe. 

*

 **Hawkguy** : Can you bring Lucky by the apartment?

 **Hawkeye** : Sure! Pizza, beer, and gossip?

 **Hawkguy** : Not tonight, Katie. I was on the ass-end of a magical whammy and just need some quiet.

 **Hawkeye** : Shit. You ok?

 **Hawkguy** : Physically. I’ll explain later, promise. The Tower is just so loud, you know?

 **Hawkeye** : You know you can always just take out your aids, right?

 **Hawkeye** : Just kidding.

 **Hawkeye** : Lucky will be waiting. Let me know if you need anything.

*

It took Clint longer than expected to get from the Tower to Bed-Stuy. 

There were too many goddamn people in New York. Just walking down the street filled Clint’s head with an endless stream of chatter. He was on and off the subway before the doors even closed because the thoughts were deafening. He hoped a cab would provide some relief, but got out several blocks later when the cabbie could not stop thinking about a porno where Steve and Tony look-alikes explored the joys of sounding. He finally got an Uber driver whose entire inner monologue seemed to consist solely of Will and Grace quotes, and they drove in relative silence all the way to Clint’s apartment. 

Everything was in the same state of mild chaos that he had left it in. There was a box of frozen pizza on the counter with a Post-It that read _Feel better old man!_ He smiled -- he really didn’t deserve Kate. 

He heard a soft _boof_ and paws scrabbling on the hardwood floors. He set down his bag and moved to greet Lucky. The dog came bounding down the stairs, tongue lolling to the side. 

**Human!**

Clint sank to his knees and allowed Lucky to lick his face. “Hey boy,” he chuckled. “Did you have a good time with Kate?”

_An image of Kate, the colors distorted and alien to Clint. The soft scent of vanilla lattes, the sound of her giggling, Drop it Lucky! A tennis ball wedged under a couch, a piece of pepperoni falling beneath the table. The ghost of a hand running through his hair._

Clint lost his balance, and Lucky bowled him over. _The sharp smell of burnt coffee, the salt on Clint’s skin after they went for a long run, an entire slice of pizza when Kate’s back was turned. Dog Cops on the television. The knowledge that stealing one of Kate’s arrows would cause her to squeal and Clint to laugh. A paw on his arm when Lucky heard something that Clint had missed._

Clint fought back tears as he lay on the ground. Forget Kate, he didn’t deserve Lucky. He carded his fingers through Lucky’s fur, and was met with a wave of pure adoration. Lucky moved to rest his head on Clint’s chest, and stared up at him with his warm brown eye. 

**Good Boy.**

”Good boy,” Clint echoed, the words catching in his throat. Lucky leapt forward at that, slobbering all over Clint’s face with renewed enthusiasm. Clint wasn’t sure if he was laughing or sobbing. _Lucky_ wasn’t sure if he was laughing or sobbing. Clint could feel the confusion rolling off him, the concern and determination to stick his wet nose all over to check for injury. Most of all, though, he could feel the love radiating off Lucky like a furnace. Happy thoughts filled the room, and Clint felt a little like he was drowning all over again. He didn’t mind so much, this time. “Okay, okay,” he laughed, pushing Lucky off him just far enough that he could scramble up onto the couch. Lucky hopped up next to him, laying his head on Clint’s knee. “Good boy,” Clint said again, scratching his fingers through golden brown fur and wiping the tears from his own face. Lucky thumped his tail happily against the couch cushions.

He let himself sink back into the couch, taking deep breaths and stroking Lucky gently. His own anxiety was still there. The guilt over yelling at Bucky was still gnawing at him, but with Lucky’s thoughts broadcasting so loudly, it was easier to not get lost in it.

Clint kind of wanted to take a nap. He wanted to just curl up and let Lucky’s affection lull him into sleep, so he wouldn’t have to see his own shitty actions replay over and over again in his head. The sting of his own words - the way Bucky had felt when he said them - had lodged itself somewhere deep in Clint’s chest.

“I screwed up, Lucky,” Clint said. 

_Lucky. “Good boy, Lucky.” Clint kneeling down to clasp a new collar around his neck._ Lucky sighed happily against Clint’s leg.

“I- I didn’t think things through. _Again._ I couldn’t figure out where I stopped and he ended.” Clint paused, feeling himself blush at the accidental implications. “Not… not like in a sex way. I just couldn’t figure out if I was hearing Bucky’s thoughts or my own.” Lucky stayed attentively silent. “You don’t even know who Bucky is, do you?”

_A memory of Clint and Kate on the same couch, fighting over the last slice of pizza, which Lucky kept his eyes glued to. “I’m going back to the tower,” Clint pouts. “Bucky always lets me have the last slice”-_

_Lucky sniffs around under the table, pressing his nose against Kate’s bare feet because it makes her giggle. Another piece of breakfast sausage drops down from Clint’s side of the table, and Lucky skitters over to scarf it down. “I practice in the range with Bucky more than Nat now,” Clint says. He passes another piece of sausage down to Lucky. “He’s more fun. We can get competitive and I don’t feel like he’ll actually snap my neck.” Clint moves his arm like he’s about to sneak another piece of sausage, but Kate kicks him in the shin. He pats Lucky’s head instead. “Don’t tell her I said that”-_

_Clint is washing plates for once in his life, the kitchen phone wedged between his jaw and his shoulder, the cord tangling further around him every time he moves to put away a plate. There’s a tennis ball stuck under the kitchen cabinets, and Clint hasn’t tried to free it even though Lucky’s been staring sadly at it for a long while. “No, Tony. You’re going to have to find another marksman to help with that.” He pauses, listening as he dries off a saucepan. “Because. I don’t care what Steve says Bucky used to like, he’s not going to appreciate a birthday party decorated with- no!” Lucky whines as Clint’s sock feet draw closer to the tennis ball. “No, I’m not telling you. Figure out what present to get him on your own.” Clint shoots a glance toward the end of the counter where he’s halfway through wrapping a dvd case. It doesn’t smell like new plastic. It’s one Clint plays a lot. His eyes finally land on Lucky. He laughs, kicking the ball out from under the cabinets so Lucky can bound happily after it-_

_The TV is on, which usually means pizza, but there are no takeout boxes to be found. Clint is still in his uniform, and he smells like sweat and a little bit like blood. He hasn’t even bothered to take off his quiver yet. He’s holding the remote in one hand and his phone in the other, beaming at the thing on TV that he keeps rewinding to. “Yeah, Nat. Channel two. It’s that one reporter you like, too. She says ‘Bucky Barnes has re-proven himself an American hero today.’ Turn it on for Steve.” The TV goes silent as he rewinds again, and then the voice of the news reporter is back, echoing Clint’s words-_

_“Where’s Blade Runner?” Kate asks, rifling through a stack of dvds. Clint pops open one of the takeout boxes on the coffee table and Lucky scoots a little closer, dragging his belly over the rug._

_“I gave it to Bucky for his birthday,” Clint says, using his chopsticks to dangle a few noodles in front of Lucky’s nose. He jumps forward to swallow them whole, and Clint smiles at him._

_“That’s your favorite movie,” Kate says. She sounds surprised._

_“It’s one of them, yeah. He hadn’t seen it though, so.” Clint shrugs and scratches behind Lucky’s ears-_

_Clint’s phone is ringing again. It’s been ringing a lot. Clint is hurt, groaning in his sleep and shifting uncomfortably on the couch. Lucky’s hungry, but mostly he’s just worried. Sometimes Clint gets sad when he misses the phone ringing. Other times people show up at the door and yell. He licks Clint’s ear, and he blinks awake. “Hey,” Clint says, blinking slowly. “Hey, good boy.” Lucky looks at the coffee table where Clint’s phone is still buzzing loudly against the wood. Clint reaches for the table, but he scoops up his aids instead. “What are you-” He stops as soon as he switches the first aid on, catching the last ring of the phone before it goes silent again. Lucky whines softly, and then the ringing starts up again. This time Clint answers, holding the phone to the ear he’s already put the aid in. “Hello?” The answering voice isn’t as loud or angry as people on Clint’s phone sometimes are. He does look a little guilty, though, running his hand through his hair and sitting up with a loud groan. “Yeah, sorry. I took my aids out before I fell asleep- Yeah, I’m fine. I’m sore, but fine. Not dead in a ditch or anything.” Clint pauses, biting his lip and looking at Lucky with a small smile. “It’s fine, Bucky. Better than Nat breaking down my door.” Clint looks down at his lap while the voice on the other end goes soft. His smile gets a little wider, and his voice is gentler even than when he talks to Kate. “Don’t worry about it. You can call me any time”-_

The memories were faint, Clint’s words only background noise and the smell of food featuring more strongly than anything else. It felt like Clint was seeing himself from far away, all the sounds and colors off like he’s watching from under water. Still, Lucky’s point of view gave him some things to think about.

“Oh,” Clint said. “I guess you do know Bucky a little bit.”

Lucky thumped his tail one more time, licking Clint’s knee.

“I owe him an apology, don’t I?” Lucky stared at him. “Yeah, you’re right.” Clint dug his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through the pre-programmed Avengers contacts until his thumb was hovering over _Bucky._ He sighed, rubbing his hand over Lucky’s head one more time, for a little luck. Maybe more like a little courage.

Then something went wrong

Clint felt a tug in the back of his mind and the apartment shifted, like the floor had flipped sideways from under him. It was only a second, or maybe it was no time at all, and then the ground was right again. Reality snapped back into place with a force that made him stumble sideways.

“Hawkeye.”

Clint steadied himself on the arm of the couch, shaking his head to get his eyes to focus on the new person in the room. Lucky was barking at the stranger, but the sound was muffled and far away, and he couldn’t seem to get himself up off the couch. Clint’s phone was still in his hand, and he prayed to whatever Asgardian was in charge of his finger finding the call button.

“You. The, uh- Wicked Wizard.”

“Wicked _Warlock,_ ” the man said sourly, drawing his velvet cloak around himself like it would make him any sort of intimidating. The guy looked like he’d been collecting dust in an abandoned Party City since the nineties. Was he wearing body glitter? “We have unfinished business.”

“We, uh, we do?” Clint asked. He didn’t… actually remember much of the fight with the Wicked Wizard - or Warlock, whatever. Just magical whammy and bam! unconsciousness, with which he was, unfortunately, extremely familiar. 

“Yes,” Wanking Wonder said. “You have something that belongs to me.”

 _Please God, let his call have gone through_ , Clint thought. He had no idea what to do with magic. With the exception of Wanda and, occasionally, Dr. Strange, he hated magic-users.

“Okay, Marvelous Max, I’ll bite, what do I have?”

Master Magician huffed his annoyance. “I’m the _Wicked Warlock_ , you ignorant plebeian. And in my haste to evade your increasingly-annoying team of overpowered simpletons, I seem to have transferred my most significant advantage to _you_.”

“Aw, futz,” Clint said, “is this why I have all this garbage in my head? God, take it _back_ ,” he urged.

Then realized that maybe wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had. If Awesome Archibald or whatever was able to read minds, that would explain how he had managed to escape the Avengers offensive so easily. Now was the perfect opportunity to _capture_ him, not beg him to get rid of Clint’s newest misfortune. 

It was too bad he still couldn’t, you know, move.

“Oh, I plan to,” the wizard assured him, “just as soon as I figure out how I gave it to you in the first place.” He was staring at Clint like a particularly annoying puzzle.

“I don’t know how you stand it,” Clint said, conversationally, stalling for time and hoping like hell a miracle was going to occur, preferably in the form of Captain America bursting through his door. “People’s brains never shut the hell up, and I know way more about sounding than I _ever_ wanted.”

“Yes, it can be a bit overwhelming for the untrained,” Zany Zach said absently, now waving his hands in a worrying fashion. “But for someone of your… talentless nature… I’m sure it’s uncontrollable. Remarkable you didn’t go insane, really.”

 _And wasn’t that comforting_ , Clint thought. 

“Ah!” Wizarding Wonder breathed, sounding alarmingly excited. “I see.” His hands began moving with more certainty, in a series of motions that, while not ASL, was rhythmic and purposeful in a way that told Clint they _meant_ something. 

There was a pulling sensation at the back of his eyes that was more than vaguely horrifying, and the room swam around Clint again, like vertigo and a migraine had a horrible baby inside his skull.

His vision was swimming in spots and he was gasping for air and trying to find a handhold as he felt himself slipping away when the front door did actually burst open, Bucky leading the charge, followed by a flash of red that could be either Natasha or Wanda, and then the entire world dissolved into nothing. 

*

Clint woke up in a dark, quiet room that looked and smelled like home.

He was grateful to wake up at all, because to be honest, it had been a little iffy there for a second. 

Groaning, he opened his eyes and glanced around, confirming that he was in his own bed in his own apartment in Bed-Stuy and-

And maybe he was going to die anyway, because Bucky was sitting in a dining chair he’d clearly dragged upstairs from the mismatched set in the kitchen, and he looked _pissed_. 

“Hi,” Clint croaked, his mouth and throat dry. 

“You’re not dead,” Bucky said, flatly. “Good. I can tell the others.” He got up to leave.

“Wait,” Clint said, trying to climb out of the bed to follow, and then failing miserably as the room lurched around him and he had to swallow down vomit.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “Jesus God, what the hell happened?” He’d been concussed and not felt this badly, for fuck’s sake.

Surprisingly gentle hands helped him back onto the pillows, propped up against the headboard. 

Clint clenched his eyes shut and swallowed convulsively until the nausea and the spinning subsided. It was worse than the hangover he’d had after a night drinking with Natasha in Bahrain. 

“Wanda undid whatever it was Mad Mercutio did to you,” Bucky said, interrupting Clint’s train of thought. “He was in the middle of doing it himself, but she stopped him and fixed it herself. Then she left me here to make sure you woke up without brain damage. I’m not sure you’re not brain-damaged, but you’re awake.”

Bucky sounded seriously annoyed, with an undercurrent of legitimate worry, and below that some kind of bruised emotion that Clint hesitated to name but knew he was the source.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, after a few seconds of loaded silence. He could feel that Bucky was hovering near the edge of the bed, uncertain. “I’m sorry, it was an accident.”

“Which part?” Bucky bitingly asked. “The part where you dug around inside my brain or the part where you played with my emotions for some reason I can’t even come up with? Was it a joke to you, or-”

“No!” Clint cried, and then flinched at his own volume. Taking his aids out would probably go a long way towards helping the throbbing in his skull, but this was a conversation that obviously couldn’t be avoided. “No I- I wouldn’t do that. That’s- I wouldn’t do that.” 

“That’s what you _did_ ,” Bucky insisted, and Clint flinched for an entirely different reason.

“I wasn’t- I didn’t mean to,” he said, weakly. “I didn’t know, at first, and then Wanda was trying to help but there were so _many people_ and then you- I just had to get away from everybody and shooting always helps me calm down and shooting with you is always… nice,” he finished his rambling sentence lamely. “I just… wanted something normal. I didn’t mean-” Clint sighed. He couldn’t fix this. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky was watching him through narrowed eyes, judging his sincerity, and Clint kind of wished the Wicked Warlock had managed to turn his brain to mush like he’d obviously tried to do. 

“And the kiss?” Bucky finally asked.

Clint thought about the kiss. It had been, hands down, one of the top ten kisses of his life. He still wasn’t sure how much of that was _him_ and how much of it was _Bucky_ , but- He thought about how Lucky saw him, and how he saw himself with Bucky through Lucky’s eyes. 

“I wanted to kiss you,” Clint admitted. “I just didn’t know I wanted it until you thought about it.”

“You lost your shit,” Bucky reminded him, and now he looked less angry and more… adrift. Hurt.

_Aw, heart, no._

“Yeah that- I’m sorry.” Clint swallowed. “I was just- losing myself. I couldn’t tell what was me and what was you and it was… too much like the whole Loki thing. I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” Bucky blew out a breath, and reached over to gently rest his fingertips against Clint’s. “What about now?”

And what about now? Clint’s head was mercifully clear of everyone’s thoughts except his own. He was alone in his own head, and for the first time in his life, he was grateful. 

“Now,” Clint started, but his head - while clear - was still throbbing, and he took the opportunity to lace his fingers with Bucky’s. “Gimme a second, Buck, my brain’s still doing fireworks,” his mouth said without any effort on his part, and that was surprisingly one of the top five actually emotionally intelligent things Clint had ever said in his life. A small part of him was cheering, while the few remaining brain cells that didn’t feel bruised were trying to cobble up a complete thought.

With Loki, it had been _all about_ emotions: Loki had made him feel good when he followed directions, had given him pride at his successes and determination when he needed it. No wonder he’d freaked out — at the time, he’d simply been overwhelmed, but looking at it now it was obvious that the rush of emotion had triggered some dark memory of Loki’s praise. But he’d gone through that, he’d painfully sweated all of that out, so — how did he feel, now? With his brain wonderfully silent, and his fingers intertwined with Bucky’s?

“Now,” Clint repeated, and his voice was both hesitant and husky, which was kind of embarrassing; “Now, I think maybe I should kiss you again and see how I feel this time?”

He wasn’t any better at identifying emotions than he’d been before this mess, but something like hope crossed Bucky’s face, followed by very obvious hesitation. 

“Yeah?” Bucky said, finally, his voice incredibly, surprisingly small.

“Yeah,” Clint breathed, “I really think I should.”

He started to try to angle himself upwards into a sitting position rather than a leaning one, and the movement pinged through his head like a tennis ball, so hard that he inadvertently clenched down on Bucky’s hand and brought his other hand up to press at his temples. He heard a strange whimper that sounded like Lucky, only realizing belatedly that it had come from him.

“Shit,” Bucky whispered, and then he’d collapsed into the chair, his hands on Clint, trying to still him; but Clint refused to get distracted and then Bucky’s hand was on his face and he was tugging Bucky in by the nape of his neck, and, and then their lips met.

The roaring in his head died down and everything quieted to the feeling of Bucky’s mouth. He could feel Bucky’s metal fingers on his face, and the soft spasm of Bucky’s flesh hand in his. Clint angled his head slightly, opening his mouth into the kiss, and Bucky made an incredibly soft noise of surprise and slowly, gently, irrevocably dove in.

Their first kiss had been a blaze; this was the lighting of a fuse, small sparks rippling through both of them with the potential and promise to _burn._ Clint’s fingers tightened on Bucky’s neck; Bucky traced out Clint’s lips with his tongue, and Clint made an embarrassing whining noise and set his teeth into Bucky’s lower lip. Their movements were slow, and deliberate; Bucky pressed harder against Clint’s mouth, moving his lips relentlessly, and Clint let his tongue trace long strokes against Bucky’s. Heat was climbing up his spine, more slowly and more intensely than anything Clint had ever felt from a kiss alone, and Clint felt like it would consume him if he let it.

And _fuck,_ did he want to — and that was him, all him, no one else’s thoughts or feelings projecting into his brain this time. Only a small bit of what they’d felt before had been Bucky’s: most of that rush had been Clint’s, blaze rising from a place Clint hadn’t even known existed, and it had surprised him but that didn’t make it any less genuine now.

Needing air, Clint pulled his mouth a fraction of an inch away from Bucky’s, panting _hard_ into the breath between them.

“Oh my god, how did I never realize how bad I wanted you?” Clint said, only realizing that it was out loud when Bucky snorted and pulled his head back. Clint felt his face heat up and winced. Their hands were still on each other, and it felt like Bucky was translating all of his want and heat directly into Clint — but this was _Clint’s_ , his own emotions, his own wants, his own words.

“So,” Bucky said with a small smirk, not quite hiding the nervousness in his tone. “What do you think this time?”

Clint swallowed at the promise laden in Bucky’s tone, and said, his voice sounding wrecked, “If I said I was still confused, would you do it again?”

“Clint,” Bucky breathed, a combination of exasperation and need that anchored itself in Clint’s gut. “Tell me you’re _not_ confused, and I’ll do it again, a hundred times. Just _tell me._ ”

“I guess,” Clint began, and then swallowed again. “I guess it really wasn’t so much your feelings after all.”

Bucky’s eyes were wide, and dark.

“Seems like it was mostly mine,” Clint finished. 

There was a moment where their eyes were locked on each other, and Clint felt frozen in place by the intensity of Bucky’s gaze. Then Bucky snorted again, and shook his head, ducking his face away from Clint’s for a second. “Thank fuck,” he said, and then added, “you’re a fucking moron sometimes, you know that.”

“You seem to like it,” Clint shot back, his own smirk firmly in place and threatening to become a broad smile if he let it.

Bucky shrugged, rolling his eyes, but his tone was almost affectionate. “Guess I do,” he said, and Clint couldn’t help but tug him in for another kiss. 

“I guess he’s alive,” Wanda said cheerfully from the door, and Clint choked as Bucky jerked away, his standard murder glare taking over.

“Better than alive,” Natasha murmured, giving Clint the kind of look that made him feel pinned like a fly.

“You can all fuck off,” Bucky said angrily, but Clint caught at Bucky’s hand and tugged it back down to rest on the comforter.

“I’m fine,” Clint pronounced very clearly, “and I don’t need any magic voodoo or tough love at the moment, so the two of you can probably go back to the Tower and do whatever it is you were planning on doing.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, but Wanda beamed at him.

**See, Clint? I told you that you might learn something new just by listening to what is said around you.**

“You do _not_ get to do an I told you so,” Clint grunted in her direction, and Wanda laughed out loud, a bright and shimmering sound.

“Go away,” Bucky said very clearly, and Natasha and Wanda both left, although Clint could hear them laughing all the way out the door.

Bucky turned back to look at Clint, and how had he never recognized this fondness in Bucky’s eyes? Clint was so used to seeing everybody judging him, weighing him and finding him wanting, that he’d stopped looking for anything positive. He’d fucked this right up — but it looked like he might have a chance to do it different this time.

“You really need to sleep,” Bucky said. “That spell thing really did a number on you.”

“Hmmmm.” Clint hummed, and then scooted over in the bed, enough that Bucky would be able to sit. “I’d sleep better with company.”

“Sure you would,” Bucky shot back, but to Clint’s surprise he climbed into the bed, actually tucking himself under the covers and reaching out to pull Clint in against his chest.

“Sleep it off,” Bucky ordered, his voice soft and low. “I think I owe you a hundred repeats whenever you wake up without a headache.”

Bucky was warm, and comfortable, and smelled like gunpowder and detergent. “I’ll remember that,” Clint murmured, as he closed his eyes and tucked his forehead in against Bucky, enjoying the peaceful silence inside his own head.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [notes from Sev]: writing this was an absolute blast. what a GREAT idea. thanks to claraxbarton for the idea and the running, thanks to the fandom for being so friggin awesome, and especially thanks to our team for the amazing writing, the hilarity, the entire Winterhawk Lesbian Universe, and - of course - the pegging chat.
> 
> [from Em]: this was definitely the most fun i've had writing a fic ever and huge props to claraxbarton for organizing this whole thing! Go Team! We did it!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ART]It started out with a kiss...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17883521) by [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB)




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